


New Lines to an Old Song

by katajainen



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bag End, Blunt the Knives, Canon-Compliant, Fluff, Getting Together, Innuendo, Lake-town, M/M, Mirkwood, Music, Songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9152845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen
Summary: There are songs that are good for both new acquaintances and catching up with old friends.One of those songs involves abusing cutlery.And some catching-ups lead to more.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely inspired by [this hobbit kinkmeme prompt.](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2235.html?thread=2730171#t2730171) Basically I just couldn't resist the idea that 'Blunt the Knives' was a bawdy song in disguise.
> 
> But I went so far off tangent that that's just a detail, really.

 ‘Ooh, do you hear that lads? He says we’ll _blunt the knives!_ ’

At the time, when Kíli took up his cue and launched into the song, the rest not far behind, Bofur had only thought the hobbit was far too much fun not to rile up, even if he seemed to be fretting more over his cups and plates and whatnot than the song. The miner blew a merry little jig on his flute and wondered idly if their host’s hairy feet would turn to a dance as nimbly as they did to spinning around and trying to keep an eye on a half a dozen flying pieces of crockery at once.

*    *    *

A flute, as any who ever signed up for a stint under the open sky would tell you, was a true traveller’s instrument. It would fit easily into your pack or into your coat in a pinch, and did a fine job whiling away an evening by fireside. But that was only good so far, only until they went beyond the marked roads out into the pathless wilderness, and evenings became a matter of a bland supper shared in watchful quiet.

The Last Homely House was a welcome exception when it came to safety, but the Elves made their own music that was strange even when it was merry, and Bofur found himself playing more out of spite than joy, which didn’t sit well with him.

Surprisingly enough, his flute survived both the goblins and the spiders, but not the Mirkwood Elves. And if he did then whistle and tap out a tune to chase away boredom, it was no reason for their captors to accuse him of trying to pass on messages in secret – it was the lads who had started matching his songs with their own; hardly Bofur’s fault, that.

Little did they know Bofur and the others _did_ pass on messages in secret; but not by any means as crude as a tune whistled to a tap on stone. Their messenger went about invisible on silent bare feet. But the days passed into weeks, and Bofur knew the hobbit was tiring out, even if he didn’t have to see him to know. He started to worry in earnest when Bilbo stopped griping; anyone still complaining would have some spunk yet left in them. It was the constant threat of being found out that ate at him; he wouldn’t take the ring off even to sleep – not even the times Bofur vowed to watch out for him and wake him at the first sound of danger.

It was the queerest thing: to listen to someone sleeping without seeing them. Even in pitch darkness you had at least some notion where the other one was. But though Bofur knew Bilbo must be curled up right against his cell door, half a handspan away if that, it still felt like the soft snores he heard came from thin air. He could easily have reached out to touch him where he lay, of course, but he had not the heart to startle the poor thing.

*    *    *

In Lake-town he’d had plenty of time and supplies to carve out a new whistle – and it did come out more than decent, if he did say so himself, and played many a merry jig and reel (and if any one of them was a tune that had forks and plates and such to go with it, then it was only in the spirit of good cheer). He did find out, then, that hobbit feet did indeed turn to a jig – atop the table, if there was no room on the floor, and the night was late and ale had been free.

That had been good playing, and the last he did in a great long while.

For the Mountain’s halls were cold and empty and stank of dragon; what song they had there went better with silver-strung harps.

And afterwards… afterwards there was a need for laments fit for kings and princes, and those were not for playing on a small wooden whistle.

Bofur was sad to see their burglar go, but the hobbit was shaken to look at, brave soul that he was. Surely he would fare better with his books and gardens and armchairs with the hole-y fiddly things on top.

*    *    *

This was some years later. Bofur rapped smartly on the green door. Waited awhile, but no answer. Well, hadn’t he said not to bother knocking, he thought to himself and went in.

The hallway was empty, and seemed larger, somehow, with no dwarven gear to clutter it. Bofur turned about and tried to remember which door was for the kitchen when he heard a gasp. He spun around to see Bilbo standing right behind him, as if he had stepped out of thin air.

‘Bofur? Of all the people… I’m so sorry; I took you for someone else entirely.’

‘Someone unpleasant?’

‘Someone I’d rather not see. But never mind.’ Bilbo flicked his hand. ‘Didn’t I say not to knock?’

‘Must be manners growing on me.’ If it was good to hear the hobbit laugh, it was even better to suddenly be hugged fiercely.

Bilbo smelled of pipeweed, hearth-fires and fresh grass, and felt so much more solid in Bofur’s arms than the thin pale wisp of a thing that had wept himself hoarse over the dead of their Company.

‘Goodness– sorry about that– where are _my_ manners?’ Bilbo pushed himself off with a huff, but Bofur thought his eyes were some too bright. ‘You missed tea, but I’m sure I can find something… there’s not more of you coming, is there?’

‘No. Just me, just passing through.’

‘Hm. Well, good; in that case my pantry might survive.’ Bilbo said drily. ‘You _will_ stay for dinner?’

Bilbo still set an excellent table, what with the teatime being past. There were scones left over, and fresh butter and some dark red jam to go with them. And soft golden bread and sharp cheese and sweet fruit, with rich dark ale for him and more tea for Bilbo – ‘because who in their right mind would have ale with scones and fruit?’

They talked easily over everything and nothing: Bilbo told of Balin coming by the summer before last; Bofur spoke of the last odds and ends of the family business he was going to settle at Ered Luin.

‘But shouldn’t you be on the East Road then? As far as I can tell, you’re making a detour here.’

Bofur shrugged carefully. ‘A friend is no detour – and anything that has kept this long will keep a while longer.’

‘Well. Suit yourself. But if you’re staying for dinner, I believe I should be doing something about it.’

It was no use for Bofur to insist they had only just finished eating. And there was something soothing about watching Bilbo putter about in the kitchen. The last time he had seen the hobbit he had been at turns frazzled, peeved and scared off his wits. But it seemed coming home had done him a good turn: his clothes were clean and fine (in fact, Bofur strongly suspected the waistcoat had true golden buttons), his face was a healthy colour and his eyes sparkled when his mouth laughed, which was easily and often.

When it turned out invitation to dinner was meant as an invitation to stay the night, Bofur was not fool enough to refuse.

They retired into the big room with all the books and armchairs and the fireplace. Bofur flopped into one of the chairs, full of a good meal and delicious beer and felt like he could have slept on the spot. For something to do, he set out to pack his pipe.

‘So–’ he ventured as he lit up– ‘you’re still living in the old house all by yourself? No Missus Baggins in sight?’

Bofur had meant it half in jest. He had not meant for Bilbo to answer with a sharp ‘No’ and a look that said it was none of his business.

‘Well– forgive a body for poking where one shouldn’t; I meant no offence.’

Bilbo said nothing, but lit his own pipe with the splint Bofur offered him. Then he leaned back in his chair and breathed out a long streamer of sweet-smelling smoke. The scent brought Bofur right back to a Maytime in the Shire years past now. ‘Don’t apologize,’ Bilbo finally said. ‘Of course you should be curious. It’s only… it’s only I don’t often get asked that one any more.’

‘You don’t? For whatever reason?’ Because if he was honest, Bofur could not see why. From any point of view, Bilbo would be one worth having.

‘Because there’s such a thing as unrespectable– and then there’s me,’ Bilbo said with a odd little half-smile. ‘Haring off into the wild with you lot and the wizard was probably the last straw. These days, half the Shire considers me completely unhinged – and that’s not counting those who still take me for an imposter and believe the real Bilbo Baggins came to a gruesome end somewhere off East.’ He snorted. ‘But the way it all adds up, I’m not exactly on the market any more.’

‘Well, that’s some people who don’t see further than their own noses. Fools, the lot of them!’

Bilbo laughed. ‘No, I say let the tongues wag. I doubt I would ever have married anyway, and most girls – or their mothers – who ever came calling were only after Bag End in the first place. Better to have them off my back sooner rather than later.’

Bofur took a careful drag off his pipe and spoke through the smoke. ‘Well, I still call them fools who’ve no eye for a good thing when they see it.’

‘Flatterer,’ Bilbo quipped. ‘Take care: you’ve already charmed yourself a room with dinner, I’ll soon start wondering if you’re only after the house as well!’

‘Never– but maybe I’m after something else that would go well with the room and dinner.’ Bofur retorted with a wink.

‘Oh, leave off, will you!’ But there was laughter in the hobbit’s voice, and as far as Bofur was concerned, a blush was a good look on him.

They fell into a comfortable quiet as they sat and smoked, and the room grew hazy and cozy around them. There was a small fire going, more for the look of the thing than warmth, but Bofur found the flames pleasant to look at. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear Bilbo’s question the first time.

‘I asked if you still played the flute.’ Bilbo blew an idle, misshapen smoke ring and followed it up with his gaze. ‘It has been a while since there was any music in the old place.’

That was all the prompting he needed to pull out the Lake-town-made whistle.

‘But surely that is not the one you had back then?’ Bilbo asked.

‘Sure is. I’m not one for replacing a good thing for no reason.’ And he blew out the start to a familiar tune, only to stop when Bilbo laughed so hard as to drown out the music.

‘Bofur, you scamp,’ he managed to say, ‘of all the songs there is to choose from...’ He waved off any apologies. ‘Please do go on, you caught me by surprise, is all.’

Bofur played and Bilbo listened and hummed in, his eyes laughing in the warm firelight. There were more tunes, and a breather in between, when Bilbo leaned forward in his chair to ask him:

‘Did I ever tell you that I know what blunting the knives means?’

‘No.. no you never did.’ Bofur laughed, caught off guard. ‘Whoever spoiled the joke and told you?’

‘As if I wouldn’t figure something was off with the way you lot were going at it.’ Bilbo lifted his eyebrows with a snort. ‘Kíli was fit to burst at the seams if I wouldn’t let him tell me.’

‘Oh. Hm. Well. But surely he didn’t know all the bits?’

‘Quite the contrary. He gave me a _very_ thorough explanation. With gestures.’

Trying to fight the smile that crinkled the corners of Bilbo’s eyes, near luminous in the soft light, was a lost cause. So Bofur let himself grin to his heart’s content. ‘Did he now? Clever lad, I always said.’

‘Yes.’ There was a pause when Bilbo looked away, back into the fire. Then he got up and stood in front of him. ‘But I know something that’s **not** in the song.’ His face was half in shadow, but the fire behind him gilded his hair, and this was the hobbit who had once kicked up a jig to the tune of a small wooden whistle, lovely and breathless with laughter and dance.

‘Do you now?’

‘Yes,’ Bilbo said softly and leaned in.

The kiss tasted of honey cakes and pipeweed and summer.

‘Are you sure that wasn’t in the song?’ Bofur asked what felt like much later and let his fingers wander in round meandering patterns down the back of Bilbo’s shirt. The excellent thing about armchairs, he decided, was how easily they would fit two. ‘It felt like it should be.’

Bilbo made a thoughtful face. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I might have forgotten.’ He snuggled closer until his breath was tickling Bofur’s ear. ‘Maybe you could remind me,’ he whispered.

In the end, the song had more lines than what they started with.


End file.
